


Capable

by pariahpirate



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Hana "D.Va" Song knows a thing or two about PTSD, Jesse McCree had a fucked up childhood, Junkrat is a Little Shit, Kid Fic, Mei-Ling Zhou does not care for Junkrat, Overwatch missions are no place for children, Young Junkrat, alternative universe, and sneaks on them anyways, couldnt you tell? I love kid fics, ymmv
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-12 13:32:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7936549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pariahpirate/pseuds/pariahpirate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jamie Fawkes is capable of anything and everything. That's only about half the problem. </p><p> </p><p>De-anon for the kink meme; prompt was an AU in which everything is the same but Rat is 70lbs of hyperactive child terror.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Whatcha doin' there, partner?" McCree uses his most charming grin, the roguish one that has never failed before - but it's failing him now. Overwatch's newest, youngest member watches him with narrowed eyes, suspicion lining ever inch of his sharp features. Hell, he's even protectively hunched over whatever he was scribbling on. With crayons, McCree notes, his eyes flicking over to the colored wax nubs. Junkrat, having followed his gaze, scrambles and collects the crayons quickly, as if he's expecting McCree to take them away.

This kid.

"Easy there," McCree raises his hands up, palms open and empty, "I ain't gonna do nothing. Just curious."

"Roadie says not to talk to strangers." Junkrat recites the age-old stranger danger line like any proper eleven-year-old. But Junkrat isn't a proper eleven-year-old. No more than McCree was. Playing with guns, running about in firefights, setting off explosions, making the Most Wanted list in record time - McCree knew the whole song and dance. Junkrat was barely a child.

"You and I both know I ain't no stranger." McCree pulls a chair out from the table and plops down. He leans back in it, puts his feet up, and let's out a deep sigh. He's feigning calm, and he's fairly certain Junkrat knows it. The twitchy kid is absent-minded, hyperactive, and reckless, but McCree knows he's not stupid. He's still living and breathing, so he can't possibly be stupid.

"You lot like to talk 'bout me when you think 'm not there. 'S pretty strange." Junkrat says the word strange but McCree hears the word _mean_ , and the kid is absolutely right. McCree knows better, keeps the majority of his thoughts to himself because who knows who might be in the rafters listening in - but he also knows several of Overwatch's less experienced members have looser lips.

"Whatcha hear, then? Anybody I oughta bring to justice?" McCree keeps his tone light, joking. He's treading on unfamiliar territory here. He knows how Junkrat is before battle (excessively energetic and excited), in battle (over the moon and having a blast in all senses of the word), and after battle (utterly tucked out, having himself a nap on Roadhog's abundant belly, or, as of recent developments, in Hana's or Reinhardt's lap). He doesn't know the rugrat under any other circumstances and years of experience with dangerous people and kids used to desperation have taught him constant vigilance.

"I ain't no snitch." Junkrat states solemnly, staring McCree dead in the eye. Damn. McCree snorts. He can't help it. This kid - he's too much like his younger self that it transcends unnerving into gutbustingly hilarious. Junkrat blinks, confused at first, but smile twists and pulls at him, and within moments they're both laughing, Junkrat's high, childish giggles paired with McCree's low whole-belly laughs fill the modest kitchen and echo.

It's good to know this kid is a relatively chipper one. Junkrat's smiling now, no longer paranoid or bothered by McCree's presence. He's gone back to his scribbles, his tongue sticking out in concentration. McCree's curious again.

"Still curious, partner." McCree is careful to avoid the word kid, Lord knows he hated being called a kid, "What you workin' on there?"

Junkrat's head snaps up, his eyes wide and bright. He grins, "Gonna be aces, mate! Gonna make an ice bomb for Snowflake!"

Snowflake is the kid's unwanted nickname for Mei. Mei absolutely hates the boy. She's one of the most vocal ones about keeping him from missions (understandable) and sending him off to an orphanage (understandable but unfair) or a juvenile detention facility (uncalled for, in his opinion, but he'd been the only one with really experiences from such a place so he might be biased). McCree wants to ask, wants to know why the kid would make something for a woman that really didn't like him all too much, but he doesn't. Junkrat, bless him, explains anyways.

"Now I know she hates me, but if I give her something nice, she can't hate me! And what's nicer than bombs?" Junkrat's smile is easily as bright as his trademark explosives. McCree doesn't have the heart to tell him that not everyone likes explosions. Instead he gets up, ruffles up the kid's sooty, patchy hair real nicely, and heads out.

"Good luck with that, kiddo." He says, and shit he didn't mean to let that slip.

"Cheers, cobber!" Junkrat waves, still beaming. McCree feels an onset of relief. Seems Junkrat isn't completely like his younger self after all. Good.

He's a good kid at heart. Genius too. McCree shudders. There's something very off-putting about complex chemistry equations written in crayon. Weird kid.

Weird. But good.

 

* * *

 

Something in her locks up tighter than an unoiled, rusted joint at the sound. Her handful of chips doesn't make it to her mouth, and instead are dropped, gracelessly and shamelessly, as her arms fall to her sides and a numbness takes her. She's half-lost in a memory. Like dead soldiers, chips lie at her feet. Unlike dead soldiers, they crunch when she steps on them.

Hana follows the sound of crying.

It feels like her past surrounds her like a thin veil. She can see the old nightmares-made-real just as she can see Gibraltar's stairs and bright hallways. She follows the crying. Her memories are filled with that crying - amplified, multiplied. She can't tell if it's real or just an episode. She doesn't know which case is preferable.

It's been a long time since she had an episode.

She listens and moves, her footsteps echoing oddly in the empty halls. Even if everyone was present on the base, most people just preferred to stay within their own small domains. The sound grows louder. The crying is closer now, and the memories have led her through time and back. That crying. It's a very specific type of crying. It's hopeless crying. Beaten, battered, broken, and on the verge of giving up. Hana can recognize the sound from rooms away. It's a sound she's heard all her life.

It's jarring to hear that type of crying here.

It takes ages to find the source, or, at least, it feels like it does. In the end she's found a cabinet in one of the dusty storerooms. There's a miserable little boy inside it, knees drawn to his chin as he bawls.

"Jamie?" Hana kneels down by the open cabinet. Her chest feels tight. What happened? What's wrong? She likes Jamie. She hates that he's crying in that way.

"Jamie?" She tries again, "You okay?"

He's not okay and she knows it but that's the only thing she can think of to say. She doesn't know what to do to make this better. She doesn't know what to do to make him better.

She freezes when she hears Jamie mutter something.

"Jamie?" She presses closer. Burning gold eyes, luminous and piercing in the gloom, snap up. Jamie's furious face is pained and pinched. He's trying to be brave. To hide the worst of his feelings away. "Jamie, are you okay?"

"Already told you!" The boy screeches, hands shooting up to his pale blond hair, grabbing fistfuls, and pulling, "I ain't okay. What makes you think 'm okay?"

A thousand words of sympathy and comfort flood her mind but none of it translates. None of it even comes close to falling from her lips because she's frozen again. Her memories play out around her again. She sees herself on the beach again, but from the outsider's perspective. Jamie has taken her place. No. _No_.

Hana shakes her head, like that will shake her out of the past. She takes slow breaths. Counting and naming the things that ground her to the present. Things that keep her Now.

"I'm sorry Jamie ..." She murmurs, "I just-"

She tries again, opening her arms in a silent invitation for the boy to crawl into her lap. She knows he will. As suprisingly good as Roadhog is to him, he's still a touch-starved little thing.

It takes a minute of quiet staring before Jamie accepts the offer. As if he would have turned it down - he lives for positive interactions. He lives for praise and affection because as a tiny child he didn't get enough. Didn't get any at all, until Roadhog found him, and one man (no matter how big the man is) can't make up for the years Jamie's spent alone.

Hana knows this. She can tell. She can see herself in Jamie all too easily. Right down to the constant need for validation. Right down to the obsessive need for acceptance. Right down to the unquenchable need to be loved by everyone. She welcomes Jamie into her lap with a tight hug. A sincere hug. It's returned in full until the both of them are clinging to each other like the world's ended. ( _Hana's world ended when she was three. Jamie's ended long before he was even born_.)

"What happened, Jamie?" She asks softly, rocking soothingly, carding her fingers through his pale blond hair. It's clean. He's clean - completely clean. It's odd.

"Snowflake hates me."

That's no surprise. Mei's godawful with kids. Even regular, normal, not-traumatized kids.

"Yeah?" Hana thumbs away more tears.

"Snowflake hates me 'nd I don't know why!" He wails, "I try t' be good! I made her a present! I even got Dragon Man t' help me wrap it!"

Hana can pinpoint the exact moment her heart breaks along its fault line, and it's the second Jamie looks up at her with red-rimed eyes that ask her _why why why_

She wants to ask Jamie what he made but she bites back her curiosity. What he did and made for Mei doesn't matter. A child made her a fucking gift. What the fuck. Instead -

"Hey Jamie?"

He sniffles. There's no reply but he looks up at her, and that's enough. She smiles at him in a way that she hopes it warm. Understanding.

"I know some people who've been dying to meet you." She shifts, and bits Jamie to stand up with her, "Would you like to meet them?"

Jamie's quiet. Hana takes his flesh hand in hers and he holds it tight like he'll fall through the floor.

Her viewers, she thinks, will be good for Jamie. They've technically already seen him, considering the fact she still streams her battles despite Commandad's ruses and insistence and she's gushed about him on end every time something on her screen explodes (which is a lot) so everyone knows how much of a doting big sister she can be to the unnamed kid her wacky Overwatch family ended up 'adopting'. The chat's been begging to meet him for a while. Hana is absolutely positive they will adore him.

Jamie's quiet, looking down at his bare foot as he curls his toes. The joints of his prosthetic click and creak.

"You- you think they'll like me?" Gold eyes full of fear and tears and frail confidence.

"Of course they will. Why wouldn't they, dongsaeng? You're great!" She says, giving Jamie's hand a comforting squeeze as she leads the way to her room.

Fuck she should really clean up. The floor is littered with empty chip bags crumpled into balls and crushed cans of Monster, Mountain Dew, or her special imported Korean sodas. Oh well. She lets go of Jamie's hand as she boots up her computer and grabs her speakers and headset.

"C'mon Jamie," She calls him over as she plops down in her chair. She pats her lap, grinning, "We're gonna stream some games."

Jamie eyes her and her computer warily.

"Roadie says not to talk to strangers." He says cautiously. Hana snorts.

"As if that stopped you from talking Reaper's ear off last week!" She teases. Jamie pouts but he doesn't have a retort. Hana pats her waiting lap again. This time he takes her up on the offer and gets comfortable. Hana laughs, wrapping her arms around the kid in a spontaneous hug and spinning her chair in circles.

"Okay, okay. How about you look at the games I've got while I get the stream started?"

Jamie nods and starts scanning through the icons on her main screen while Hana sets up the stream and text chat on her right monitor.

"Heyyyyy!" She smiles waving at the camera, "I've got a big treat for all my lovely fans!"

She glances back and ruffles Jamie's fluffy blond hair. The anti-radiation treatments Dr Zeigler put him on have been working wonders - the patch parts are almost completely gone, vanished by fresh hair growth.

"This is my captain for the day! Everyone, salute the Captain."

Immediately the text chat blows up with various greetings from countless viewers. Hana directs Jamie's gaze towards the camera and the chat, to which he waves awkwardly, a nervous giggle spilling out.

"G'day?" He waves shyly.

The chat responds in various ways. Calling him cute, adorable, precious. Gushing about his accent and his freckles.

"See? I told you they'd like you." She says breezily as the chat betrays her by quickly relaying how often she gushes about Jamie.

"Uh- this one. Can we play this game?"

"Of course, Captain."

She's good at all the games she has. If she was cockier, she'd say she's good at all games, period. It only takes half a round for her to get into the swing of this game - a team-v-team game in which you crew airships and battle it out in the sky - and one more round for her to establish a solid winning streak.

Jamie, the enthusiastic pyromaniac he is, falls in love with the mounted dragon-canons. She lets him play a few rounds too, helping him out when necessary and lending pointers when prompted. He does fairly well for a beginner. She just might make a pro out of him, if only to see Lena and Lucio scream when another kid kicks their ass at Mario Kart and Super Smash Bros.

Time passes and games are won. Eventually Hana suggests another game, one with plenty of explosions. She directs Jamie to her snack stash and tells him to help himself. He snacks away in her lap, occasionally holding up a handful for her to snag when her hands are metaphorically tied to the keys.

More time passes. They move on from game to game to game.

She pops another bright pink bubble as her thin fingers dance across her keyboard, executing command after command, and within seconds the game chat explodes with bitching scrubs and whiny babies who honestly deserved to lose that game with that complete lack of teamwork. Come on. It was a full stack against her and some beginner randos.

"Git gud." She chuckles.  
"Git gud!" Jamie parrots as he's prone to. Immediately the stream chat overflows.

**[sneckler]: The Captain has spoken!  
[tootsupreme]: Hahah omg git reckt  
[pierate]: fuckkin told scrubs**

Hana grins, sparing a moment to ruffle Jamie's hair while the next game loads. Jamie grins up at her, enjoying the praise.

"Alright Captain," She pops another bubble and takes a quick swig of Mountain Dew, "Which hero are we picking this round?"

Jamie shoves another handful of her shrimp-flavored chips in his mouth and crunches them thoughtfully.

"That one." He says, pointing to one of the tanks. The one that uses alchemical explosives, naturally.

"Excellent choice Captain." Hana smirks. Jamie grins as he licks the flavor dust off his fingers. She readjusts the kid in her lap, and takes a deep breath.

"Gonna blow them all up, right?" He rocks in her lap, back in forth. His fluffy hair, soft because it's clean, tickles her chin.

"Of course we are, Captain." She says matter-of-factly as the Mission Start cutscene plays across her main screen.

"Aces."

It was an easy game. Once again the great D.Va had carried her team of baby ducklings to victory against a team of self-proclaimed pros.

"Attention sore losers" Hana drawls over the voice chat, "The Captain has an announcement to make." She smirks down at Jamie, lifting her finger off the push-to-talk key. With an inviting wave of her hand, Jamie pushes down they key.

"GG EZ!" Jamie cackles.

"Thank you, Captain." She says, taking over once again, "You noobs ready for round five of your asskicking?"

There's groans and complaints over voice chat. The text chat has a few pleas for mercy. Mercy. Hah. Hana snorts. They're playing with D.Va, not Dr Zeigler. Mercy is not what they should be screaming for here.

Regardless, the party dies then and there with a simple glance at the clock. It's nearly dinner and Hana's been ignoring her bladder for about two solid hours. She should go remedy that.

"Alright Captain, time for the goodbyes! It's dinner time." She announces before waving and blowing kisses at her camera, "See you guys next time!"

She shuts off the stream but doesn't get much farther than that when nature calls. Loudly.

"Brb!" She announces before dashing off to the bathroom, leaving Jamie behind on the foot of her bed. She's gone for less than two minutes and Jamie rushes at her when she gets back, tackling her in a hug. She stumbles back a bit, extraordinarily surprised. He's definitely avoiding meeting her gaze. She's suddenly worried. She thought her plan was good enough of a distraction to work for longer than just a few hours.

Nothing could have prepared her for what comes next.

"Th-thanks noona." He stammers out before bolting off towards the mess hall.

Hana feels her heart swell and she stands stock still for several minutes after Jamie's left, still processing. Noona. She glances at her computer screens. The chat log on the right monitor is filled with encouragement, well-wishing, and pronunciation help.

Noona.

He called her noona.

 

Fuck. He's _too_ _cute_. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie rather enjoys the Overwatch labs, even if he can't reach the shelves with the chemicals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who reviewed:  
> YOU GAVE ME IDEAS I HAD TO WRITE THEM INSTANTLY I AM SO SORRY

Winston enjoys the company. Though Athena had largely disapproved of the recall, having the Gibraltar base fully and bustling again, having living, breathing companions in the lab again, is nothing short of a joy. A highly illegal joy, but what is reward without risk?

"Hey Mister Monkey Man?"

Winston looks up from his schematics only to be greeted by wide gold eyes centimeters from his own. He recoils in sheer surprise, glasses falling askew. He knocks over a few things from the neighboring desks (Miss Vaswani's things? Torbjorn's things? Oh dear-).

Jamison Fawkes is perched on his desk. The child had scared the dickens out of him - just when had he wandered into the lab? Athena was supposed to inform him about these things. An unsupervised child in the Overwatch lab facilities was a safety hazard not just to the child, but to everyone else as well!

"... 'thena says you ain't supposed to be snackin' on peanut butter." Jamison grins, standing up on the table, rocking back and forth on his heel and little peg. He sounds _delighted_. Everything about his voice is teasing in that childish way.

"I- uh - I wasn't snacking." Winston tries to defend. Jamison, ever one for dramatics, makes a show of him looking at the modest pile of emptied peanut butter jars.

"Mmmm, yeah. Reckon it looks more like a full-blown meal." The boy's sharp smile is cheeky. He's no doubt reveling in the fact that an adult made a mistake. Winston makes a face, opens his mouth to defend himself again because he has most certainly not been making a meal out of peanut butter those jars are old he just hasn't had the time to properly dispose of them - but Jamison has already lost interest.

"Whatcha workin' on?" He asks quickly, inspecting the mess of Winston's desk, covered in discarded notes, work-in-progresses, and his current pet project.

"Well, I was-"

The boy is now too engrossed in the schematics he'd been working on before he was interrupted to hear him. Winston can tell by the intense focused glint Jamison has in his bright gold eyes. He doesn't bother to finish his sentence. He understands the pointed tunnel-vision all too well.

Jamison has plopped himself down, criss-cross-applesauce, on the table, chin propped up by his prosthetic. He's humming an off-key tune to himself, one that Winston doesn't recognize a lick of. He moves, picks up the schematics.

"... 'S your lightning gun, right?" Jamison asks, holding the schematics up above his head, tilting it every which way, likely in an effort to understand Winston's scribbling in the margins.

"Ah - yes. Yes it is." Winston adjusts his glasses and gathers his composure, "I'm hoping to improve my Tesla canon-"

"How?" Jamison interrupts quickly, cocking his head to the left.

"Wh- excuse me?" He feels uncomfortable.

Jamison inhales, slow and steady and excessively dramatic, as he sets down the schematics. He smooths it out across the desk meticulously before pointing to the messy preliminary sketches.

"Didja wanna fix the range? The damage output? More spread? Less spread? Better bang for your buck in the ammo department?" Jamison asks, one bushy blond brow raised. He doesn't give Winston much time to respond, instead launching into a number of ideas on how to improve the weapon's range by using a higher-quality coolant and widening the barrel. How to increase the efficiency by changing out most of the internal parts for a different type of copper alloy. How to pack a better punch by switching out a few mechanisms for something that's more fragile but more streamlined, allowing room for more coils. Each idea has potential and is definitely a solid place to start with improvements. He hadn't even thought about altering the spread of his tesla canon.

Having others in the labs is a blessing. It would have taken him days to come up with a solution, but a pair of fresh new eyes? Wonders. Works wonders every time!

Winston is one of the few members that seems to remember how intelligent the child is. Most other members cannot see the veritable prodigy underneath the healthy layer of child-grime and thick Australian accent. Or, he reflects, perhaps they refuse to in light of the boy's age and origin. He does suspect that several of the more paternally inclined members feel nothing but guilt when faced with the irradiated child. After all, Overwatch never did anything for Australia. To be forced to bear witness to the consequences of your mistakes ... it couldn't be pleasant.

"Thank you Jamison!" Winston ruffles the boy's hair (clean and fluffy, he now understands why everyone else enjoys the affectionate action). The boy pouts.

" 'S Jamie. Or 'Hemi' but only if you're Roadie 'n I guess Hana but you ain't Roadie or Hana so 's just Jamie. Not Jamison. 'N not 'Mister Fawkes' neither." He sticks out his tongue in mild disgust, muttering, " 'm not a Mister Fawkes ..."

Winston laughs at that, the loudness and fullness no doubt startling the boy by the way he jolted. He joins in quickly enough. To him, it seems, laughter is terribly contagious.

"I'm sorry." Winston says, grabbing a pencil to jot down those excellent ideas, "Thank you, Jamie. Your insight is very appreciated!"

It's the truth, the honest truth. Jamie looks up at him with starry eyes, his smile shy and timid - an oddity Winston would have never expected. Was he not used to praise?

"Thanks, Mister Monkey Man!" He chirps.

"Winston." He corrects with a grin.

"Winston." Jamie nods.

"Well then Jamie," Winston sets aside his schematics, the ideas recorded in his messy chicken-scratch to be further worked out later, "Why are you in the labs? Did you need help with something?"

The boy nods solemnly, "Wanted to make some bombs but I ain't allowed to without adult supervision." He scoffs at that, muttering to himself about never needing it before and he was fine then without it whys that gotta change now?

Winston clears his throat, pulling the boy from his tangent and back to the matter at hand.

"Oh, right! Right! I can't reach the chemicals no more. Miss Mercy put them up really high." He scratches his neck awardly, "Help? Please?"

The 'please' was added as a rushed afterthought. No doubt it was either Angela or Fareeha's efforts to instill some manners into the boy before Hana's uncouth lack of them utterly corrupts him. That, or maybe Jamie had learned that a 'please' will usually get him compliance with nearly anything, even some of his more outlandish requests. Like attending missions.

Winston cannot suppress his smile.

"Of course."

 

* * *

 

Her desk is in a distressing state of disarray. A state that she most certainly did not leave it in. Her lips purse into a tight frown but nevertheless she begins to right the wrongs. Everything is settled back into order soon enough, and she really shouldn't be so aggravated. It was a small mess - nothing like that of which was coating the far table to her right where a small child sat, utterly absorbed in his work. He was all but coated in gunpowder dust and smoke residues from chemical mixes.

He isn't wearing the proper attire for such work, Satya notes with distaste. Such unruly behavior - but it's none of her business. It is not her child. It is not her responsibility.

She had thought work would be able to bury the rising feeling of Overwhelming. No such luck was to be had. Everything just became more Overwhelming. It was infuriating, and that feeling of frustration only feed the beast that was growing within her, quickening her pulse and placing an increasing amount of labor in each breath.

The world around her falls out of focus as it all becomes too much.

A sound snaps her back into the world as the lab returns into focus. One of her pencils has fallen to the ground. She stares at it for a moment before reaching and picking it up. She places it neatly next to its fellows, perfectly parallel with the orderly paper stacks on the right side of her workstation.

There's another sound. Some papers are misaligned. She corrects it. The world around her grows sharper. She thinks she hears talking.

There's another sound. One of her sentry prototypes is on its side. She corrects it. The world grows sharper still, and she sees the boy before her. Hears the boy before her. He's not at his desk, working on his projects.

There's another sound. She recognizes it as the thump of metal on metal. The boy had kicked her desk, knocking things askew. A pen rolls out of position and she manages to catch it before it falls. The boy is talking to her, definitely talking to her. The world is crisp again. Breathing is easy.

Satya doesn't understand why the Overwhelming feeling is gone so quickly. It is entirely gone. She feels the drain, the tax it's taken on her energy, but none of it remains. The feeling is utterly gone.

"You were breathing really loud." The boy says, as if that explained everything in the world. As if that was that and the answer was obvious. Satya returns her attention to him.

He's a little, messy thing. Explosives Specialist Fawkes, prohibited from frontline combat and all missions. On-base, light duty only. Known prodigy in the fields of chemical and biomechanical engineering. He is younger than Satya had expected, but not younger than she had been when Vishkar had taken her in.

Vishkar would have appreciated his skill, she thinks, and immediately shakes the thought away. Out of her head. Vishkar would have ruined him as they ruined her. Filled her naive childhood with lies of a better world. She must let them go.

"I apologize." Satya's words are clipped and mechanical, "I have distracted you from your work."

The boy grins, "'S not a problem, Starlight! Ain't supposed to work on me bombs without a grown-up anyways."

What an odd child. ( _Starlight?_ ) Even his disorder was inconsistent. What kind of creature of mayhem and chaos obeyed rules?

Satya conjures up a hard-light seat and sits, taking a pencil in hand. She pauses, glancing up at the boy. He lingers. He makes no move to return to his bombs, his work, or his table.

"I am certain I qualify as an adult. You may continue your work." She says in the same clipped tone. She feels odd. She cannot place it, but the feeling is familiar.

"Don't wanna." The boy says, shifting his weight from foot to peg. Satya narrows her eyes in distaste. Unsymmetrical. Orange. A second analysis also reveals the leg to be too short for a growing child. She inhales through her nose and bids herself to let it go. She takes up her pencil and begins to work on a stronger sentry design.

"How'd you do that?"

Satya looks up again from her unfinished calculations. The boy mimics her hand motions almost perfectly - his form is rigid and soulless but the angles of his arms and fingers are flawlessly on point.

"Create hard-light constructs?" She asks, raising one delicate eyebrow. She watches the boy's furrow as his face pinches.

"No! No - not that- well, kinda that, hard-light's really - " he pauses mid sentence, mid ramble. He grabs handfuls of his fair hair and pulls in his frustration. He finally says, after a few seconds of furious tugging, "The other thing!"

Ah.

"Dance?" Satya says, and the boy nods.

"S' right, Starlight!" His eyes and smile glow as laughter wells up from his tiny form, "How you do that?"

(Starlight again. Does he not know her name?)

Satya doesn't answer his question at first. There are many answers she could supply.

"Practice." She says, finally after a long silence. She looks at the eager boy, bursting with endless energy. That familiar feeling blooms within her again when her eyes meet his. She looks away, looks at his prosthetic leg. Two birds. One stone. She decides quickly. It's the first decision she's made on a whim in a very long time. This child just inspires chaos, doesn't he? Perhaps she can balance him. Perhaps she can impose some order.

"Shall I teach you?" She offers. Her voice is light. Breezy even.

"To dance? Or the hard-light thingy?" The boy cocks his head and narrows his eyes.

"Both, if you wish it." She answers. She feels generous. The strange familiar feeling is still unrecognized, but she has come to the decision that it is welcomed. It makes her feel warm.

The boy's eyes widen almost comically in size, "Really? You ain't takin' the piss out of me?"

Satya recognizes the slang for what it is, and can gather enough context from the boy's words to provid her with a rough translation.

"I assure you, I am serious." She stands smoothly and beckons the boy to the most open area of the room, "Watch."

She visualizes what she wants to craft and begins to dance. She weaves a number of pale blue light shapes. Her body moves with them. Stronger shapes form, solid shapes come into being. When her dance is finished, she holds a prosthetic leg in her hands, tailored perfectly to the boy's measurements.

He looks angry. What is wrong?

"What's wrong with my leg?" He growls. Petulant little thing.

"You will need more than one foot if you wish to dance properly." Satya says. She offers the leg out. The boy looks down, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. He must have failed to see logic. It is excusable, he's still fairly young.

He plops himself on the grown ad and begins a long process of unlatching and unbinding his little peg leg. She trades him the hard-light prosthetic. She's as shocked at the peg leg's weight as the boy is at the weight of the actual prosthetic leg. Once it's latched on and functioning, he wiggles the hard-light toes. This is somehow greatly amusing to him. Something in Satya finds it endearing as well. She smiles behind the cover of her hand. The strangely familiar feeling grows stronger still.

"If you enjoy this prosthetic, I can teach you to weave your own." She lays the offer down as the boy shifts his weight between his flesh leg and the leg of light. His bright gaze snaps up to hers in an instant, mouth agape with shock. There are stars in his eyes.

"Really?"

"But of course." Her reply is smooth. She does not lie. She is done with Vishkar. She does not have to lie for them anymore. She has decided this. There will be no more lies.

She draws herself up, ready and firm into one of the more easier starting positions, "Come."

The boy scrambles over to stand a short distance to her left, clumsy and unused to the properties of two feet. He has a little trouble with his balance, but he manages to stand on one leg with his other angled correctly. He's still wobbly, but her first dance was far cry from perfection. This lesson will be on establishing a connection to rhythm.

She smiles softly as the half-forgotten music of her childhood echoes through her mind, thrumming through her ribcage, sounding through her blood. There's that feeling again, warm and familiar. She looks to her newfound student. He looks up to her with an eager face, ready to please.

Satya feels happy.

"Face front." She says.

"Let us begin."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> C'mon who do you guys wanna see the most? I think I'm sticking to two heroes per drabbly-chapter so take your pick !!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wants to be good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my irl friends voted for Torb and Reaper to be dicks. Thats why this chapter took so damn long

 

Seeing as Rutledge was needed on the front lines, and such a place was not at all one for young children, little Fawkes had been left in his care up in the back line wings. Torbjorn hadn't minded, though he knew several of members of the team disliked it (to put it mildly). He was decidedly neutral on the subject - he conceded that yes, a battlefield was no place for a child, but if Overwatch really didn't want the little troublemaker to come on missions, they'd try harder to leave him behind on base. For fucks sake, the little agent of chaos stowed away on transport so easily! It was as if Jack led the boy inside himself!

 

Torbjörn liked the kid. He enjoyed little Fawkes' company and it was nice to have somebody around who genuinely looked up to him. Literally. He was young, didn't yet know the nuances of the trade, but he was a bright blooming engineer. Made his usual prosthetics himself - although today, for some reason, he's wearing his dancing leg. The dull orange light it sheds illuminates his step in ways that keep the boy occupied. It's a small blessing, he supposes. 

 

Almost quiet, methodical steps - in time it flows together and ah, he was practicing. Adorable. He's nearly as dedicated to Vaswani's lessons as he is about sneaking onto missions. 

 

Torbjörn watches the boy carefully from the corner of his eye as he works on the full setup of his turret, hammering out there, tightening bolts there. It doesn't take very long at all. Nothing does, not when it's an old action, repeated again and again over the course of decades.

 

"Hey - Engie?"

 

He freezes. The kid is fond of nicknaming people. He had at least one for everybody he's met so far. Torbjörn knew a man that once went by that nickname. Had studied briefly under the old man.  Respected him. It was an honor as much as it was a knife in his gut to take up that nickname. 

 

"You have my attention." He says, setting down his hammer and devoting all of his attention to the child. 

 

The boy gnaws at his lip. Looks down at his feet. Suddenly shy now, boy?

 

"I forgot." Fawkes toes the stonework rooftop they're hiding on. His turret beeps once but there's no fire. Enemies aren't quite in range yet. Good. Means the front liners are doing their job.

 

"A shame." Torbjörn murmurs, gathering up some scrap from his supplies, melting it down, and pouring it all into a nice quick-mold for some armor. He knows the boy is lying, but can't imagine why. 

 

There is silence, save for the echoes of gunfire. Torbjörn instinctively shuffles over, stepping between the sounds of conflict and Fawkes. 

 

"You made your arm, right?" 

 

"I did." He nods, "Ever since I lost it, been working on it. Upgrading it. Improving it."

 

The boy blinks owlishly, wide-eyed, enraptured and grinning, before something changes. Something comes over him as the smile runs away from his face.  His face snaps down and his fists ball up at his sides. Poor thing stands rigid and cold as a brand new nail.

 

" 'n you make armor too." It's more of a statement of fact than a question but it's affirmed regardless. 

 

"That I do - speakin' of which.." He pours out some molten metal and sets the molds and circuitry. He's got a handful of armor packs within seconds - one of which he hands over to his young companion. "Come get your armor!" 

 

"You make your turrets too. I see you in the labs doing it. Making new ones." Torbjörn hears the boy's voice crack. He hears the welling tears and the half-muffled sniffling. Crap. 

 

"Boy?" 

 

Fawkes is barely holding himself together, putting on a brave face and furiously beating back tears. It's a losing battle from what he can tell. It only takes a minute for the breakdown to fully start. 

 

"Wanna be good." He says and Torbjörn can see the tears fall and land.

 

"Wanna build things like you can. Like Starlight can. And Winston." Starlight? Was that what he called Vaswani? 

 

"But I can't." 

 

Torbjörn straightens. Ah. He knows what this is about. This about the cryobomb and Zhou. This is about a child wanting to be good enough for a league of heroes and geniuses. This is about fear and belonging. 

 

"I can't. 'M not good enough. 'M not good."

 

This isn't an obstacle that Torbjörn is familiar with, but he’s never needed to be familiar with an obstacle to overcome it before. 

 

"All - all I do is make bombs 'n bombs are bad 'n nobody likes them because all they do is hurt-"

 

“You made your arm?” He interrupts the boy with the question and he knows the answer already but this needed to be said. And maybe it was said a bit too curt. Maybe a bit to sharply. Either way, Fawkes’ head snaps up and his wide-eyed stare fixes up on him. A dumbfounded, confused expression chases away the grief and the fear and already he’s on the right track. Good.

 

“Yeah. ‘course I did. Ain’t like anybody before Roadie was gonna help me out -”

 

Torbjörn takes the boy’s metal hand in his and begins inspecting it with all the pointed eye for detail that an engineer should. From the welding to the cobbled together parts and the wiring and the ball joints. It’s not the best work he’s ever seen. Half of it had been stolen away from some sort of omnic, judging by the intricacies of the fingers. It’s an impressive piece of work considering where it came from, and factoring in who made it ….

 

“It’s detachable?” Torbjörn presses on, making sure to keep the boy occupied with mechanics. No time for feelings if you’re chattering on about scrap and wires, “Or wired straight into the nervous system?”

 

“ … s’ detachable. Having one wired right into you doesn’t work too great in Oz, mate.” The kid makes a face, “Sand. An’ grit. Gets everywhere and in everything an’ dust storms jus’ happen sometimes. You gotta have a port. ‘S just easier to keep clean.”

 

Torbjörn nods along. He doesn’t quite have the first-hand experience that Fawkes does, but he’s listened to McCree complain about sand in his machinery often enough. Not to mention the times he’s had to clean McCree’s arm out.   
  
“Who installed your port then?”   
  
“Um, well. Some doc named Piecerat did m’ arm. I did m’ leg port.” He emphasises the answer with a little kick of his prosthetic leg.

 

Torbjörn blinks. “Did you now?”

 

Fawkes frowns a bit, a small pout. His eyes are still red, lashes still damp, but he’s done with crying for now. 

 

“Yeah. I got lucky the first time. Passing doc helped me out enough. Then when I lost m’ leg, it was easier. I remembered how to do it.” He pauses. “Hurt more that time, though.” he adds as an afterthought. Torbjörn nods along. Connecting nerves to metal did tend to hurt. But damn if the boy wasn’t a little walking marvel of desperation and determination. Advance medical procedures done in the wastes by a child -

 

His turret beeps and fires and he’s on high alert. He gives the order as he steps in front of the child.

 

“Hide.”

 

*   
  


He’s staring into a pair of gold eyes filled with venom, but all he can think of is brown. Brown like the earth. Brown like the mud. These eyes are gold but he’s locked in a memory of ages passed. He’s locked in years of regret.

 

“Spook.” The boy hisses, thrashing violently against his hold. Not that it would help. He's wrangled stronger idiots. Older idiots. He can hold up this kid with one hand. 

 

“Show some respect.” He drawls. It's still second nature to correct insubordination. The more time he spends free of it, the more he misses the Blackwatch days. Overwatch as a whole had betrayed him. Left him for dead and ruined his life a thousand times over. But Blackwatch - 

 

No. Stop it. 

 

Little shit up and decides to bite him right then and there,tearing him out of that careening train of thought. It shouldn't have hurt. Shouldn't have even penetrated the thickness of his gloves and armor but it seems as if the kid had a mouth of needles. It hurts like a bitch, actually, but he won’t let that show. He won’t even flinch.

 

The kid lets go eventually. Reaper can feel punctured skin. He can feel it already begin to heal up. Never once do those gold eyes let up their stare.

 

“You hurt Engie.” The kid hisses. He’s not even a bit afraid. He should be. The kid really should be scared of him. Little shit knows what he’s capable of. Knows what he’s done and knows what he could do, and yet those eyes just glare away. Under his mask, Reaper flinches. Too familiar. Shit.

 

_ I don’t even think children are afraid of you _ . He hears that fucking gorilla taunt him in the back of his mind. Fucking goddammit. The Australian rat wasn’t afraid. Not even a little bit.

 

“What are you gonna do?” He settles for taunting the brat. It proves to be a mistake. The shit pulls out and hits a detonator before he can react and suddenly they’re both careening off the newly scorched Dorado rooftops. He doesn’t have time to think. He just reacts, shifting into black smoke, tendrils reaching out and curling around the kid.

 

The kid is safe and whole and held tight in his arms as the rest of his body solidifies in the back alley. He’s still staring, but something has changed. The animosity is gone, replaced by something worse.

 

It’s wonder.

 

“You -” The boy starts and Reaper knows where this is going. The last time he let the brat open his mouth, he never stopped.

 

“Quiet.” He snarls and the words die in the kid’s throat. His expression even falls. For a moment, Reaper thinks that everything is going to work out, but then the boy shifts in his arms. The boy  _ snuggles closer _ in his arms. His breathing is slow and his heart is slower.

 

“I wanna be good.” The boy says. His voice is so quiet it’s barely above a whisper, “You do too, don’t you?”

 

He blocks everything out. Everything else must go. He’s half-solid as he makes for the front lines again. He makes sure the boy is well seen so he’s not shot. It should be satisfying, the way the fucking Overwatch shits lower their weapons and tense up at the sight of him holding their fiery little mascot. It’s not. Instead, all Reaper can focus on are a pair of furious eyes.

 

Like all those years ago, he’s staring into a pair of brown eyes filled with venom. This time though, there’s hurt in there too. He can't take it. Can't take the guilt. 

 

“I think this belongs to you.” He hisses, harshly delivering the gremlin into Jesse McCree’s arms before dissolving into a mass of smoke and running away like a goddamn coward. 

 

_ I wanna be good. _ The boy had said. 

 

_ You do too, don't you? _

  
  
  


Too late for that now,  _ niño.  _

  
It's way too late for that now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And as always, send me requests! Who's next? Don't be shy in sending scenarios too!! I'm up for any and all ideas!!

**Author's Note:**

> dongsaeng: little sibling  
> noona: big sister
> 
> All the chat usernames are usernames I've used before. Please don't shame me
> 
> I will show every member of Overwatch interacting with Rat. I swear. And it will somehow be a cohesive story. 
> 
> So, gimme suggestions? Who do you want to see next?


End file.
